


One From the Vaults

by Mithrigil



Category: Fate/Zero
Genre: Ideological Seduction, M/M, Priests, Repression, Sadism, Seduction, near-porn experience, this ain't communion wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:23:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/pseuds/Mithrigil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s another step forward for Kirei, embracing his desires. Archer is all too glad to help.</p>
<p>Or, <i>how to seduce priests and influence Grails.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	One From the Vaults

The wine is good enough. Kirei’s never developed much of a taste for it, communion aside, and so he drinks it more like water or coffee or tea. It doesn’t make him any less thirsty, and it doesn’t make Archer’s prattling any more bearable. Pointless, really, and yet Kirei still drinks.

“Good?”

“It’s fine,” Kirei says.

“And here I opened my cellar for you and everything.” Archer stretches out on the couch, one braceleted hand behind his head and the other tilting his glass back and forth. Kirei watches the play of light on the wine instead of Archer’s face, eyes, jewelry. “Not much gets under your skin, huh.”

Kirei doesn’t dignify that with an obvious answer, and besides, Archer clearly likes to hear himself talk.

“No, I know you’re not in touch with what you want, but I didn’t think it went as deep as your tongue. Do you have a sense of taste, priest? I knew someone once who didn’t. He burned it off when he swallowed hot iron.”

Kirei doesn’t have anything to say to that either. But the image sears his mind: an unfortunate criminal, choking on the dryness of his own tongue, branded and blistering until the muscle is barely recognizable, barely itself.

He may not say anything, but he does make a sound, and it echoes in his wine.

Archer laughs. “How’s it taste now?”

“No different,” Kirei says. It’s not a lie. The wine tastes like itself. But it gathers on the underside of his tongue now, as if to evoke sympathy.

On the couch, Archer swivels, reclines on his side to perch his glass on the end table. His eyes are a brighter red than the wine, closer to blood. Kirei only looks briefly. “You know the funniest thing about happiness? It’s self-propagating. Like vines. A little like sickness, maybe. Once you get a taste of it, it turns into everything. Wait, even better, it’s like spices, like salt. You put it in, and it never comes out.”

Kirei drinks and sets the glass down. He’ll run out of sips and excuses at this rate, but then, there’s nothing keeping him here but politeness --

“And correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think only your drinking muscles just moved.” Archer reaches over to take the wine bottle by the neck, refill Kirei’s glass, and apparently to show off a smirk that nearly reeks of bravado. “Should I tell you more about how that guy’s tongue shriveled up? Muscle doesn’t burn the same as skin, you know. It takes longer. And the tongue’s one of the strongest muscles in your body. Well, maybe not in yours, you don’t use yours nearly as much as you should.”

“I’m sure it’s one of the strongest in yours,” Kirei says, and if the words come out dry he can blame the wine.

“It is, but that’s not my point. My point is that that guy’s tongue did all but explode --”

Kirei struggles to breathe.

“-- and you know tongues, they keep themselves slick, so it’s not like any of the medicine he tried to take for it would stick, and bam, there goes his sense of taste.” Archer sets the bottle down, twists it a little on the way. “And, well, it’s not like he could talk much either. He tried to cut it out himself later, but choked. Ha. Choked.”

“That’s horrible.”

“What, the joke? You don’t seem to think the rest of it’s horrible.” Archer sprawls back onto the couch, as if to drape his arms around two imaginary sets of shoulders, one on either side. “Let’s not beat around the bush, priest. You like it when other people suffer. I just want to figure out which part of it you like the most.”

There’s a faint film of sweat between Kirei’s hand and the wine glass. Not enough to make it slip out of his hand, but enough to notice, enough that if he were holding a knife he’d know to compensate. His fingers leave prints, blur out the glow of the wine. “Why?”

Archer shrugs. “You like it when people suffer. I like it when people do what they like.”

_I don’t,_ Kirei thinks, clear enough that he could say it aloud, whether it’s true or not.

“So what is it?” Archer asks, sloshing his glass back and forth, no sweat and no stain. “Talking about exploding tongues got you pretty hot and bothered, but maybe it’s the suffering. What was I talking about the first time I noticed? Right, Berserker’s Master. What’s his name? Ka-something.” He trails off obnoxiously, purses his lips. “Kamina? Karona?”

“Kariya,” Kirei says. He doesn’t mean to pant. His tongue is dry, and he drinks, draws a little too much over the rim of the glass. “Kariya Matou.”

“Right,” Archer says, “Kariya. So which part of it? Is it the worms that are crawling under his skin? What about the toll it must be taking on his mind? He’s even less equipped to fight for the Grail than you are, you know. That’s why the Crest worms at all. He’s letting himself be eaten away because he wants the chance so much. And the best part? Well, the best part for you at least: he’s not gonna get it.”

The glass is slick enough that Kirei has to put it down and wipe his hand on his knee. He knows Archer watches the whole gesture like it’s a step in mass, knows those red snake-eyes are following Kirei’s hands and the new creases in his trousers.

“Guess that’s it,” Archer says, with a faint jaunty purr on the edge of his voice that’s plain unsettling. “He wants it so much, and he’s not gonna get it. And you would _love_ to see him crumble on the way up.”

Kirei sits with his fists curled at his sides, tighter than he means to. The taste of the wine lingers on his tongue, headier than it was, like the rough edge of leather.

“That’s exactly what’s going to happen. I won’t even have to open the Gate for Berserker again. Tokiomi’ll just fry all the worms in Kariya’s pathetic body and you’ll sit back and watch, and I bet you’ll get off just like you’re getting off now.”

“I’m not,” Kirei says, more reflexive than true.

Archer laughs and slinks up from the couch. His necklace and bracelets ring out, and gold has a sound now the way that wine has a taste. “Bullshit,” he says, “just look at yourself. You’re a warrior, priest, you know your own body. You think it’s some kind of fever that’s got you rubbing your palms on your thighs? Ha. Try putting them a little closer to the source.”

_It’s not pleasure,_ Kirei thinks, _pleasure’s supposed to feel good._ But what he feels is urgent, uncomfortable, like there’s a layer of heat between his muscles and his skin.

And, warrior’s instincts or none, he doesn’t notice that Archer is sitting on the table now, next to the glass, his knees framing Kirei’s, until after it’s already happened. Archer leans forward toward Kirei’s face, and it’s apparent to Kirei for the first time that Archer is _smaller_ than he, that the King of Heroes could be a mortal man if not for those eyes.

“Think about it,” Archer says. His breath is close enough to Kirei’s to stir up the chapped corners of Kirei’s lips. “C’mon, tear him apart in your head. It’s gonna happen for real anyway, you might as well plot out how you’ll do it.”

That discomfort under Kirei’s skin swells, spreads. He uncurls his fists, then closes them again, steadies his breath.

“Unless you think that’s too good for him.” Archer leans back, shrugs, knocks against Kirei’s thighs with his knees. Kirei feels the impression of snakeskin through the cloth, raised, textured, slick. “I mean, _I_ think he’s suffering enough, but you clearly want to draw it out. So draw it out.”

“Draw what out?” Kirei breathes.

“Imagining,” Archer shrugs. “Or your cock. Whichever makes you happy.”

Kirei shakes his head, shoves off the couch. His knee takes the wine glass down with it and frankly, he doesn’t care.

“Waste of good wine,” Archer says.

“You’re out of line.”

“Yeah, and you’re aroused.” He grabs Kirei by the thigh, one firm grasp before Kirei swats him off. “Come on. I know you think you’re doing what you want to do, but just look at yourself. This is the simplest way to make yourself happy. It’s not like you’re the kind of person who doesn’t want that. Believe me, I’ve met a few. You’re not like them. You’ve got something you want, you just don’t want to face it.”

“I’ve taken _vows_ ,” Kirei says.

“Like that’s stopped any other priests.”

Kirei shuts his eyes, and wills himself to ignore the heat encroaching on his back. He should leave. He can leave. He _will_ leave.

But Archer says, “I’m just trying to help,” and takes Kirei by both thighs, this time. His palms are smooth except for the spilled wine, and for a moment Kirei knows the scent and the taste entirely. Good wine. Good, old, powerful wine, spreading viscous and sweet over his tongue.

He imagines shattering the bottle, gouging out Archer’s snake-eyes with broken glass, and stiffens against the rush of heat.

And Archer is just the right height to tongue his words right into Kirei’s ear: “You want to hurt me for this, don’t you.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tear you in half if you try. But go ahead and think about it. Whatever turns you on,” he says, and runs the heels of his hands over Kirei’s groin. King of Heroes or not, Kirei could grab those hands and break them right now, watch Archer, Gilgamesh, balk and stare as a mere mortal crushes him and hurts him and --

The _yes_ that falls from Kirei’s lips is a kind he’s never said before.

His back is flush to Archer’s chest; his backside, against Archer’s pelvis, and the hide of his pants and the metal of his jewelry are strangely cool through Kirei’s clothes. But behind those he’s putting off just as much heat as Kirei, and unabashedly if the slight forward pulse of his hips is any indication. It’s as steady as breath, as the thick beat of blood under Kirei’s skin, and when Archer’s hand cups him and coaxes him he envisions himself prying each finger off and then out, clean out of Archer’s joints, as slow and torturous as what Archer’s doing to him right now, but not as good.

This is good.

Thinking this, and feeling this, is _good_.

His hands spread and tighten on snakeskin. Archer’s hips are sharp, hard under his thumbs. Kirei imagines tearing into them, ripping through Archer’s flesh past the muscle to the bone, just to show Archer he can. He could. And even if it meant Archer killing him after there would be one moment of shock and anger, one moment of that perfect arrogant composure shattered and gone. His breath comes short, his head is heavy and lolls back, and when Archer’s tongue and teeth streak up Kirei’s throat it doesn’t register as a threat, it’s an invitation -- and the hands prying apart the closure of Kirei’s pants, those aren’t a threat either, those are a promise.

Archer’s hands are as perfect as the rest of him, except for the faint stickiness of spilled wine. Kirei knows that without seeing, just by the feel of them under his clothes, coiled tight around his skin.

Kirei shoves back his elbows, breaks out of Archer’s grasp. He almost wishes he could see Archer’s reaction, but it doesn’t, shouldn’t matter.

“Idiot,” Archer tsks, behind him. “You were so close.”

“It’s none of your business,” Kirei says, zipping his fly. It feels distinctly wrong, and that urgency isn’t gone.

“Everything’s my business,” Archer says. “Everything’s mine.”

“Not me.”

“You too. Accept it.”

Kirei leaves. Archer doesn’t follow. But the leathery taste of the wine lingers between Kirei’s teeth like cement between bricks, no matter how hard Kirei tries to suck it out.


End file.
